“Is it really settled, Mr. Bangs?” she asked, as if scarcely daring to believe in the possibility. “Are they really goin' to buy that Wellmouth stock of mine?”
“Why—why—” Galusha was yawing badly, but he clutched the helm and kept on the course; “I—ah—hope so, Miss Martha, I hope so.”
“And pay me—pay me MONEY for it?”
“I presume so. I hope so. If you will—”
“I declare, it doesn't seem possible! Who, for mercy sakes, is goin' to buy it? Mr. Cabot, himself?”
He had been expecting this and was prepared for it. He had rehearsed his answer many times before coming downstairs. He held up a protesting hand.
“I am very sorry,” he said, “but—but, you see, that is a—ah—secret, I understand. Of course, they did not write me who was to buy the stock and so—and so—”
“And so you don't know. Well, it doesn't make a bit of difference, really. The Lord knows I shouldn't care so long as I sell it honestly and don't cheat anybody. And a big house like Cabot, Bancroft and Cabot ought to know what they're doin' when they buy, or let any of their customers buy. I'll get the certificate this very minute, Mr. Bangs.”
She hastened up the stairs. Galusha wiped his forehead and breathed heavily. There was a knock on the door leading to the dining room; it opened and Primmie's head appeared.
“I heard her go upstairs,” she whispered, hoarsely. “Is it all right, Mr. Bangs? Was there good news in that What-you-call-it-Bancroft letter, Mr. Bangs? Was there?”